The ghost of you
touches my shoulder lightly.
A cold wedge sits in my breast bone
as you knock over an old photo.
Its aged frame crashing to the floor.
Smashed glass
once dangerous
now, a welcome reminder of your presence.
So,
I light a cigarette, place your hat on
your ashes
displacing the dust on the un-opened box.
I try to warm myself up
in the smell of
your
cigarette ashes-
melt the wedge in my breast bone
with the smoke.
Try to use my mind’s eye
to remember past conversations,
old rituals- long since cremated
but a knocked over photo frame
is just a knocked over photo frame.
I put the photo back gently
stump out the cigarette
leave the hat where it is
let the coldness settle.
Leave.
As the ghost of you
touches my shoulder lightly.
©Rebecca Cavanagh
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